


follow without noise and be strong of heart

by tortoiseshells



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Bandaging Wounds as a Romantic Overture, Canon Compliant, Emma Green x Character Development, Episode 2x04, F/M, Missing Scene, Season/Series 02, Unwarranted Use of Latin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-14 01:38:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16030328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoiseshells/pseuds/tortoiseshells
Summary: If he died because he was noble and she was craven, she would never forgive herself. Surely that means something?Or, Emma Green and Henry Hopkins at Ayres Farmhouse, before night falls.





	follow without noise and be strong of heart

Chaplain Hopkins wouldn’t let her tend him until all of the others had been seen to, waving off her concern over his arm firmly but kindly, and she’d had no choice but to honor his. By then, they’d almost lost the light. Emma was near to exhaustion. Every part of her wanted water and rest, but fear – that the Chaplain had been shot, that it could be worse than he’d said, that it could be _infected_ – ran through her both taut and hot, her own touch of fever. Finally convincing him to sit, and to roll his bloody sleeve up past his elbow, was a relief like unlacing.

“It’s nothing, Miss Green,” he protested, half-heartedly, keeping his arm close beside him.

“I am the nurse here,” she pushed back, hand on his wrist, feeling his pulse jump, “I shall be the judge.”

She thought of making some jest about Major McBurney’s obsession with proper placement of people and things, _What would happen, Chaplain Hopkins, if you were to change bandages, and if I were to preach to the men_? Ecumenical impossibility aside, mentioning the Major could only vex him, so she smiled gently instead, turning to her task. The wound had bled considerably, and Emma cleaned it, with all the composure and calm she used with the men under her care in the wards, as though he were the same.

“You were lucky,” Emma said quietly. The ball had cut an ugly furrow, but the skin around it was no warmer than it should be. 

“As were you.” 

She hmm-ed, brushing off the implied reproach. Bandaging should have been quick work, but between her fatigue and her relief that he was safe, she went slowly, winding out the cloth and marshalling her thoughts.

She’d been so afraid, ducking behind the wall, for a moment lost to a powerful fear of her own mortality – then she’d heard him shout in pain –

she’d stepped up, into fire, heart pounding like a rabbit’s, her own blood roaring in her ears – 

and the Almighty had been merciful, for the shots went wide, then stopped, and Henry was still alive before her. 

She had done this all in the space of a few breaths, almost without thinking: as though it was instinct, some other being living within her that was not to be denied or questioned. But Emma was herself again. She saw clearly what she’d thought, what she’d done. If he had been killed, and she could have done something to prevent it, she would never in all her living days forgive herself. She’d realized that in the snap of a shot, and then the rest had followed. If she stood up, she _might_ be wounded. If she stood up, the soldiers _would_ stop firing. _Quod erat demonstrandum_. 

And now, here they were. She knew he was watching her work, because he frequently did, and though Emma knew herself to be deficient in understanding many things, she thoroughly knew the business of flirtations and implied affection. Even if she hadn’t had that particular education – well. Henry Hopkins was a man of many virtues, and subtlety was not one of them.

She, though – she’d had a gift for it, leaving her intentions and feelings to be guessed at in parlors, at the table, on the floor of Mansion House’s ballroom. She’d been so sure of herself. It was a neat contrast, Emma thought ruefully. Before the War, the Hospital – everything that occurred – Emma Green knew who she was, and hid it artfully; now, after that – and yet still during? – Emma Green did not know who she was becoming, and could not hide the changes. Perhaps she wouldn’t have minded it so much, if her actions weren’t running ahead of what she'd made peace with.

“Miss Green?” 

Emma nearly jumped. Henry had said something, and she hadn’t heeded it. Her hand was still on his arm, though she’d tied off the ends and checked that the dressing was secure.

“I’m sorry, Chaplain. My mind was elsewhere.”

“Understandably so,” he allowed, rolling down his sleeve, fumbling with the buttons at his wrist. And then, as though he were repeating himself, asked, “Why did you do it?”

“I-“ she began, and stopped quickly. She couldn’t say aloud what she hadn’t acknowledged, even in the dark. “Does it matter?” 

He did not push for an answer, and looked at her fondly. Emma hoped he’d look at her like that again, in Mansion House, in Alexandria, elsewhere. At the very least, she could admit that to herself.

“No,” Henry said quietly, understanding something she hadn’t said, “I suppose it doesn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Walt Whitman's "The Wound-Dresser" - I started titling _Mercy Street_ fic with Civil War poets, and I mean to go on in the same way. 
> 
> Am I pushing characterization with Emma's thinking _quod erat demonstrandum_? Probably.


End file.
